


Jacks Full of Deuces

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Consensual Exhibition & Voyeurism, Dean Meets His Double, Dirty Talk, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Episode: s08e14 Trial and Error, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Porn with like... plot decorations, Riding, Season/Series 08, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Switching Talk, Threesome - M/M/M, bunkerfic, magical mishap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 14:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16766896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: “What if…” Sam should’ve spent more time prepping his case. “He’s you. Some kind of…reflection, you know—”“Like, my mirror twin? Bizarro Dean? Come on, man, he doesn’t even have a goatee!”





	Jacks Full of Deuces

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural Reverse Bang 2018!
> 
>  **[Art by the goddess Amberdreams](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/599474.html)** , who totally has my number this year. Beta by crowroad, who somehow isn't sick of my brain yet. Thank you, both of you. So much love. And to the mods, big extra hugs this year. I have been a careening mess, and y'all have shown me kindness and grace that I did not earn. ♥♥♥♥♥

[ ](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/599474.html)

“Dude.” Sam sighs, “You fell asleep in here?”

Dean snores. Library table, drooling on his arms.

“After alllll that, ‘It remembers me,’ crap.” Sam circles, jabs his shoulder. “And what, in God’s name are you wearing, more dead-guy clothes?”

Dean grunts. Neck pops and he cracks one eye. “W-Wesson?”

“Uhh…”

“No,” Dean mutters, “you gotta be the older brother. You’re-uh. Kin to Sam, right?”

Kin to—

“What the hell happened last night, man? Think I quit my—” Grabs his stomach. “Oh my God, something smells amazing.”

And, from the far steps, “Sammy, check this out!” Burgers, on real plates, smothered in cheese, tomato and onion, hot buttered buns. “We have a real kitchen now! We can—”

Dean-at-the-table bolts up. Chair topples and clatters, and Sam whips back and forth. Burger-Dean puts down his plates, primes for a fight.

“Okay, what the fuck,” both say.

Blood pounds in Sam’s ears, must be some kind of expla—

_Wesson!_

“Dean Smith.” He finally connects, “Meet Dean Winchester.”

Folded arms. “Well aren’t you a handsome devil?” Stereo.

Sam rubs his temples.

[ ](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/599474.html)

*

Far as Sam can tell, he is Dean Smith.

“Last thing I remember, my boss offered me this promotion that sounded more like indentured servitude.”

Driver’s license, credit cards. Blood pressure and pulse.

“I told him he could cram it; figured, I’d rather run off and play Ghostbusters with Sam Wesson.”

And he’s taking this shockingly well.

“I just found out ghosts are real, like, day before yesterday. Angels aren’t that big a leap.”

But there’s still:

“How’d I get here? And, how do I get back?”

Sam can’t figure out how there’ll _be_ a back. Dozens of records for “Dean Smith;” none match this guy’s bio. Sandover Industries never heard of him, and the address on his license looks to be about a hundred yards into Lake Erie.

“We’ll… figure it out.” Sam cringes. “Meantime, you want dinner? Or, a shower? I’ll set you up in a bedroom; pretty sure Dean’s clothes—”

“Dinner.” Smith’s tongue runs out. “I’ve been on the Cleanse—”

Sam grins. He forgot about that.

“—probably could use the carbs.”

*

Bunker door bangs open and Dean—Winchester, Sam’s Dean, the real Dean—announces, “You will not believe what Kevin had for us!”

Sam looks up from a Men of Letters’ ledger, inventory of all their magic artifacts.

“Wait a minute, where’s…” Dean points at his face.

“I put him in a spare room,” Sam says. “Told him not to snoop around or touch anything.”

“You gave him the run of the place?”

“What else was I gonna do?”

“Twenty bucks says we have a dungeon!”

“Dean…” Sam breathes. “What did Kevin say?”

“Oh, he just figured out how to close the Gates of Hell, no big.”

“Close, the Gates of Hell. Like—”

“It’s a bunch of Trials. Real fire and brimstone shit too. ‘Whosoever, blah-blah-blah, spine ripped out your asshole’ or somethin, but, come on, man. This means icing all demons forever? Time to play through the pain.”

Sam could really use a minute to process, but, “What do we have to do?”

“First one? Kill a Hellhound and bathe in its blood.”

“Ew.”

“I know.” Dean shrugs. “But then, we just say this spell, and, whammo.”

“Wow.”

“I know!” Dean sets up at the map table. “Okay. Hellhounds like to collect on crossroads deals, right? So all we gotta do is, track down some loser who signed over his special sauce ten years ago, and get between him and Clifford the big dead dog. Easy.”

“I dunno,” Sam starts, and—

“Hey! Uh… Dean.” Smith strolls in, wearing Dean’s clothes, unshaven. Only his shiny shoes give him away.

Sam’s point: “We-uh, probably should take care of other things first, yeah?”

Dean’s teeth clench.

Smith says, “So guys… My credit cards still work. I’m gonna need a ride to a Neiman Marcus and a Whole Foods, stat.”

Dean’s jaws twitch, eyes flutter closed.

*

They impress upon him the importance of laying low.

“Just… with that face…” Sam starts.

“My reputation precedes you,” Dean finishes.

Sam side-eyes him. “What he means is, we have enemies. Dangerous. Powerful, some of them.”

“Yeah, but,” Smith says, “I can’t walk around dressed like a lesbian lumberjack, eating triglycerides indefinitely.”

“Lesbian—” Dean balls a fist in front of his mouth. Paces laps around the library.

Sam throws up his hands. “You can buy clothes online. We have a P.O.—”

“Tell me at least there’s a tailor in town.”

“No…” Sam can’t imagine.

“Some church lady who sews for hire?”

“Maybe.”

Smith seems appeased.

Dean, on the other hand, “Great. Can we move past your wardrobe malfunction now?”

“Listen, troglodyte.” Smith bulls up. “Maybe _you_ can live in…” Picks at a flannel sleeve.

Sam bites his lip.

“Well, you can go naked and freeze, Versace. Matter-fact…” Dean menaces, backs Smith in a circle. Smith peels off his overshirt and whips it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes, knock it off!” Sam’s voice rings satisfyingly off the vaulted ceiling. “I’m gonna go, you know, _work this case_. You two…” He flails a little, “go to your corners.”

*

Sam cross-references ledger entries, box of files next to his bed. Best guess, Dean triggered a sigil, spell, or curse on something. This place? Maybe lots of things. He’s ruled out the scimitar Dean cut himself on. Gone through every item he kept for his room. Random, finally: flipping through folders, skimming photos.

“That’s promising,” Sam mumbles and, on cue, Dean texts:

_Room 10A_

Sam grabs the file.

“Close the door,” Dean stage-whispers.

Sam does, but, “Why would you text me to meet you here?”

“Cause I doubt Brooks Brothers even knows what a laundry room is, and we need to talk.”

This oughta be good.

“I have a theory,” Dean says. “You know how Cas has been acting weird ever since,” vague gesture, “so. What if the angels are up to something?”

Which, Sam can’t dismiss that outright. But, “I have a theory too.” Deep breath, and he shows a photo. “You remember this?” Old mirror. Octagon. Gilt frame with an angel carving. “I… saw it in your room, I think, before you redecorated.”

Dean’s chest puffs up.

“This file,” Sam plows on, “I think it’s in Dutch.” He lays out a page on the dryer. “But it says _spiegel_ which is _mirror_ in German, and this word.” Points, “ _Openbaring_. Like, that’s gotta be, _revelation_ or _confession_.”

Dean shakes his head. “Still not following.”

“What if…” Sam should’ve spent more time prepping his case. “He’s you. Some kind of… _reflection_ , you know—”

“Like, my mirror twin? Bizarro Dean? Come on, man, he doesn’t even have a goatee!”

“You’re hilarious.”

“He can’t be me!” Dean squawks. “He’s a prep. A jock. A square!”

“Are you done, Kerouac?”

“He wears panties, Sam!” Dean snags some from the clean clothes.

“Those are boxer shorts.”

“Silk. Boxers. Which you will recognize, as man-panties.” Dean flings them down. “You don’t know him like I do, dude; I lived him. He’s a prissy, self-righteous, food-obsessed…”

Sam’s lips pinch.

“Okay, you know what? Kiss my ass.” Clearly, Dean needs some time to get right with this.

“Whatever, man,” Sam says, “it’s just a theory.” Stalks out.

He digs in his room for sweatpants, tank top, sneakers. Spotted a heavy bag downstairs, time to break it in.

Gym door’s ajar and Sam hears some kind of whistling, slapping, breathing. Turns the corner and stops cold. Smith—sweat-shiny and hip-cocked, holding a jump rope—sucks down water. Broad back gleams. Flimsy black shorts hug his ass, and in the mirror, blush of faintly ginger happy trail. Six-pack like Sam’s never seen on his brother, rock-hard nipples.

Smith spots his reflection. Hooks an eyebrow. “You comin in?” No-demons-allowed tattoo.

Sam’s face burns. “Yeah, I was just…” Nods at the heavy bag.

“Do you, man. I’m gonna lift awhile, if…” No scars. Nowhere near the freckles, wrinkles.

“Sure.” Steel folding chairs run along the mirrored wall. Sam takes a seat, takes gauze and tape from his pocket. Smith adds plates to the bench press bar. “You don’t need a spotter?”

“Nah.” Smith eyes him. “Not, powerlifting or anything, just blowin off steam.”

Sam gets that. He spools and cuts off a couple of knuckle pads, sticks a row of tape strips to a chair. Spins the gauze around a wrist, over and under his hand. Circles his thumb. He lays a knuckle pad in place and holds the gauze roll in his teeth. Wrist twists and he hunches over—

Fumbles. Gauze pad bounces and unwinds. Sam swears, reaches down—

“Let me.” Smith snaps it off the floor, and before Sam knows what’s hit him, drags a chair up, drapes Sam’s arm across the back. Smith prods, inspects Sam’s wrap job. Chest hair tickles and thumbs trace. “Spread your hand.” He secures Sam’s knuckle padding.

Sam crackles. Blood pounds. “Not the-uh… state-of-the-art fitness center you’re probably used to, huh?”

Smith’s eyes flutter up. “Oh.” He looks around. “Aw, I dunno, I kinda like it.” Half a grin. “Old school.”

“It is that.” Jump ropes, plates, and weight belts hang on pegs. Pull-up bar. Heavy and speed bags. Dumbbells, barbells, medicine balls. All good American wood and cotton, leather and steel.

Smith radiates. Crisscrosses, twists the gauze between Sam’s fingers, flips and loops. Murmurs, “Make a fist.” He tugs and tucks. “Now, open. How’s that feel?”

Sam stretches, flexes. “Wow.”

Smith smirks. “Tape?”

Sam hands it over.

“Switch.” Smith’s fast. Wraps Sam’s right hand, firm and efficient. Goosebumps pop on his arms and shoulders. Eyes on task. “All set.” Smith cradles, tickles Sam’s palm as he pulls away.

Sam remembers bumping into this guy. Stranger, but. So familiar.

Smith laces him up. Buttery old brown boxing gloves. “Go get em, Rock.”

Sam pops them together. “Thanks, Mick.”

Eyes crease and twinkle.

Sam angles himself, best he can, away from Smith and his reflection. Can’t miss him throwing a leg across, stretching out on the main bench. Thin shorts settle at his hips. Sam breathes. Throws his right, right-left, ducks and uppercuts. He pictures Dean. Not out of spite so much as habit.

Vacant lots behind motels, slap-fights in after-school clothes. Dad-directed training. Blocks, throws, submission holds.

Sam works the bag. Hands up, heels up.

He and Dean haven’t scrapped for fun, in… decades, maybe. Not that it ever was Sam’s fun. Outweighed, out-trained, out-reached. Out to impress big brother.

Sweat runs, tickles down his back.

Only ever cared about impressing Dad.

Left-right.

Big brother’s an idiot.

Right-left.

_“I have my own room. We have a kitchen.”_

Dodge-swing.

Like this place is anything but borrowed.

Sam lands a roundhouse, falls back, wipes his face…

Smith stares. Knees wide on the weight bench, straight-backed. Dumbbell in each hand, mid-curl. Chest gleams; biceps bulge. “Nice form.” Weights sink to the mat.

All Sam’s breath blasts out. Shivering. Sweat-soaked, half-hard and adrenaline-stoned.

Smith stalks Sam, herds him toward the mirror. “I don’t…” Head shakes.

Sam could just, put up his dukes, he could—

“Never even looked at a man before…”

Sam’s back hits cool glass.

“Wesson. He, have this too?” Knuckles over Sam’s tattoo, obvious where his shirt’s wet.

Gloves weigh heavy.

“Must be weird for you, cause of how I look.” Smith presses in. “But I’m not your brother.”

Except, he probably is.

“And, even if I was, I don’t think it’d stop me.” Smith drags Sam’s wrists above his head. Smells like Dean, but… less. Whiskey and red meat, blood and motor oil. Sam’s shirt bunches up as Smith grinds, palms down his arm, squeezes his triceps. Heartbeat hammers. Smith thumbs Sam’s jaw, tips down his chin. “You wanna come with me?”

Sam folds. Knocks his forehead into Smith’s. Boxing gloves behind his neck, small of his back. Smith dives between them, wrestles down his shorts and Sam’s sweatpants. Curls a hand around them. Sam hisses; hips kick.

Smith hooks an eyebrow. Tightens his grip. “You wanna fuck me, Sam, is that it?”

Sam’s head thumps the mirror. Quaking.

“Throw me down on somethin?” Smith snakes against him, hard and wet. “Crazy part is, I think I’d let you.”

Sam groans. Balls draw up, he’s—

“—come inside me. Never barebacked in my life—”

Gone. Sam fucks slick in Smith’s fingers. Rubs off on him.

“God, you’re beautiful. I can’t—”

Helpless in goddamn gloves, but Sam can—

Smith’s fist bangs glass as Sam’s lips close around his shaft. Salt, sweat, and Sam’s own come. Palm at his cheek and Smith’s face, screwed up.

Sam flicks his tongue, bobs with his shoulders, twists his neck. Smith’s soft grunts fall around him. Sam holds on, much as he can.

Smith shakes, leans on the mirror. Warns, “Sam…”

God help him; Sam wants it. Probably his only chance—or rather, close as he’ll ever get. Sam sinks til he chokes. Eyes flick up. Smith chews on his lip. Hands on Sam’s head and he roars. Sam sucks, leaks down his chin. Smith rocks and fucks and Sam moves with him, works him.

“Sam, you have to—” Smith shoves at his shoulder, hits his knees, and kisses Sam. Wild sounds. Lips part. Smith slips inside, roams and licks.

Scrabbling, hands hobbled, Sam moans.

Smith falls back. “Never did that before either.” Tongue smacks, tasting himself.

Sam laughs. Fucking absurd. “So, when you said, ‘Save it for the health club…’”

Smith grins. “That was like, three days ago for me.” He rakes Sam over. “Musta made an impression.”

Sam has to ditch these gloves. Unties the laces with his teeth.

Smith pulls him free. Stands. “Here.” Hands Sam a towel.

He’s got enough dexterity to wipe his dick off, haul his pants up. Smith’s at the sink, shorts at his ankles, washing up.

“You know, there’s a shower room like, next door,” Sam says.

“Yeah, but who wants to walk over there like…” Smith bends and twists and he’s dressed. Points at his crotch. “Gross.”

“Sammy!” Dean’s boots on the tiles.

Sam breaks for the hallway; gym smells like—

“Hey!” Dean’s grin fails. “Oh.”

Smith, half-zipped in Dean’s old hoodie, crowds Sam’s side.

Dean squints, flicks back and forth. “Listen. I’m gonna roast a chicken. Make everybody happy, huh?”

Sam breathes. “Thanks, Dean. That sounds great.”

But Smith says, “We’ve got time to hit the showers then, huh?” And hooks an arm around Sam’s waist.

Sam jumps.

Dean blinks. “Really.” Chin hits his chest. “All right then,” turns an about-face, “dinner’s in two hours.” He marches off.

“Am I missing something?” Smith asks.

Sam slumps into the wall.

*

He pulls three chairs into a triangle around the big map. “You two, sit.”

Worry creases Smith’s face; fury sets Dean’s.

“Smith.” Sam takes a breath. “We haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“We?” Dean snips, “You got a mouse in your pocket, Sammy, or y’just glad to see him?”

Sam glares. “He’s _you_ , moron!”

“Wait.” Smith bristles. “I’m, what?”

“It all fits.” Sam pulls his notes. “ _You_ were fucking around with that scimitar, right around when we picked out rooms.” He shows the picture. “This mirror, triggers a blood spell, to, ‘show you reflections only the mirror can see.’”

“Whatever that means,” Dean mutters.

“I think,” here’s the bullet, “ _hope_.” Sam bites. “He’s… a personification.”

Dean blinks.

“An embodiment, y’know, of, things you’d maybe rather not—”

“What, like gettin you on your knees?”

Sam gapes.

“Old place is dusty, Sam.”

Smith speaks up. “If the-uh… plot device is permitted an opinion…”

“Oh, yeah, I can’t wait!” Dean tips back.

“I don’t know anything, about, all these books and symbols,” he nods, “that mirror.” He licks his lips. “But… ever since I… bumped into, _you_ , apparently, all I’ve thought about, all I’ve dreamed about…” Eyes on Sam. Teeth click.

“Well, you two should be very happy together; this is fucked up.” Dean wheels his chair out. “I got food prep.”

Sam watches him walk away.

“I think he took that well,” Smith says.

*

Sam finds Dean putting the almighty hurt on an onion. “Can I help?”

“Can you chop celery?”

“I can behead a vampire.”

“Close enough.” Dean nods him toward a knife block. “Wash your hands.”

Sam soaps up at the pedestal sink. “Says something about them, doesn’t it?”

“Hm?”

“The Letters. All these washstands, every room.”

“I hadn’t thought about it.” Chop. Chop. Chop.

“Like, for all we know, they never saw the sun down here. But they still—”

“Kept up appearances?”

Sam looks over his shoulder.

Dean throws a wink. Scrubs at his eye with the back of his wrist. “Onion’s a bitch.”

“Dude, you’re making stuffing?” Big pan of breadcrumbs, butter and broth. Sam’s just noticing.

Dean shrugs. “Sounded good.”

Sam falls in next to him. Dean nitpicks, a little, but Sam catches on.

“What I don’t get is,” Dean says, finally, “if you thought he was me…”

Sam almost doesn’t roll his eyes.

“But he’s better, right?” Chop-chop-chop. “I get that. Less mileage. Less… repressed.”

“Dean.” Sam puts the sharp down. Rounds the island and makes Dean look. “Would you? Y’know… even now?”

Chop-chop-chop.

“That’s what I figured.”

“You could watch.” Smith saunters in. “I wasn’t… even pretending I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

Dean’s chin falls.

“I mean, listen, man, nobody blames you.” Smith sidles up to Sam. Arm hooks his waist again. “Fuckin _look_ at him.”

“Lot more to Sammy than his looks,” Dean mumbles.

Smith says, “I’m gettin that.”

“Okay.” Dean turns for the stove. “I’ma get all this shit in the oven.” Gas pops on. “You two go,” licked lips, “warm up that memory foam.”

Sam’s heart parks in his shoes. “You’re coming?”

Dean leers like Sam’s a pretty waitress. Almost sells, “Depends how good the show is.”

Which, Smith takes for a challenge, apparently. Sucks Sam’s tongue in his mouth, licks underneath. Sam grunts. Knees wobble and—

“All right, break it up,” Dean says. “That is super unsanitary; get outta here.”

*

Smith’s eyes pop when they land on Dean’s arsenal. “Cozy.”

“You know…” Sam kinda laughs. “For us it is.”

Light fingers, handle of the Purgatory axe. Smith murmurs, “He feels safe here.”

Sam shifts his weight. Scratches his elbow.

“Hey.” Smith holds a hand out. Sam closes. He palms up Sam’s chest, under his flannel. “You guys, with these.” Smith peels the sleeves down Sam’s arms. Sam shakes them loose. “Seriously, have you ever considered just one layer?” Smith holds his shoulders, looks him up and down. “Cause I gotta tell ya.” Cheeks puff. “God _damn_.”

Sam’s face flames. He ducks his head. Smith slides into him, hands ride up, cup his jaws. Foreheads knock and Sam hooks Smith by the belt loops. Holds him there. “D-Dean…”

Tips back. “Everything all right?”

Sam’s probably a freak for asking, “What’s in this? For you?”

“Other than gettin another shot at that sweet mouth?” Thumb drags Sam’s lips.

He makes a face.

“Okay.” Smith’s fingers trail Sam’s sternum. “If you’re right, and your brother needs me to… help him get over himself or whatever…”

“More or less.”

“I figure, let’s handle this most obvious issue. Maybe I get home, see _my_ Sam.” Smith cringes. “Not that you’re—”

“I am in no position to judge here.” Sam shows palms.

Smith smirks. Scrunches up Sam’s shirt. “Real question is, Sam Winchester, what do _you_ want?”

Sam’s tasted him. He’s seen him come. “Will you fuck me?”

Smith inhales. Round, wet mouth. Tight, gray-faded KISS t-shirt, battered jeans. “Yeah, Sam. I’ll…” muttered, “Holy shit.” And, “Uh. We’re gonna need. Y’know. Condoms. And…”

“I got it.” Sam bolts for his room. Backup duffle, zipped compartment.

“Gun Oil?” Smith snags Sam’s toss.

“Gag gift. Dean thinks he’s hilarious.”

“Your brother bought you butt lube.” Smith sets it above the headboard. “What do you need me for again?”

Sam snickers. “And condoms, should be…” Nightstand, top drawer, “Bingo.”

“Well then,” Smith prowls around the bed. “Let’s get you naked, huh?”

“Seriously?” Dean hangs in the doorway. Striped, old-man pajama pants, dead-guy robe. “Knew you were slow, Sammy, but damn.”

“You wanna undress him?” Smith offers.

“Nah.” Dean plops in his chair. “He’s alllll yours.”

And Sam grasps, suddenly—

“I’ma sit right here.” Kicks back; robe falls open. “Judge your technique.”

Two of his bossy, fussy brother—

“Oh, I’ll make it good.”

Competing.

“That’s _my_ rep on the line. You better make it good!”

Sam shivers.

Smith spins him, puts him facing Dean. Blankets his back, pets his chest. Tugs up his shirt hem. Sam bends, ducks through the v-neck. Hair in his eyes.

Dean stares. Practiced cool.

Smith drums Sam’s belt buckle. Strokes him through his jeans. Sam’s head falls back, Smith’s shoulder. Cheek-to-cheek. “Your fucking neck.” Nose, lips, teeth. “Who has a sexy neck? You’re—” Warm, wet. Clamped on Sam’s earlobe.

Sam groans.

“Christ, man, get his dick out; he’s…” Dean’s chair squeaks.

Sam crashes against Smith. Dean, edge of his seat, arms on his knees. Hands folded. Not hiding, if he’s trying, dick straining behind thin fabric. Maybe a wet spot. White knuckles. Heels bounce.

Smith peels Sam’s belt apart. Blazes behind him. Thumbs Sam’s button loose, zipper down. Sam pulses into his hand. Low rumble-laugh and Sam turns toward him.

Smith worms fingers inside Sam’s waistband. Bares his ass. Tops of his thighs. Dean growls. Sam’s pants tumble to his knees.

Smith sidesteps, swings Dean back into view. Hunched shoulders. Hands on his thighs. Squeezing. Sam’s calves bump Dean’s bed. Smith gets a handful of hair and surges into him. Teeth click and noses bump. Sam’s scalp stings. Smith’s tongue curls and explores.

Sam breaks away, drags Smith’s shirt off. Tries for his fly but Smith bats his hands. Nudges him to sit. “Turn over.”

Blush licks Sam’s face. Kicking. Dumps his jeans and—swallows—stretches out, on his stomach. Smith kneels between his legs.

“Fuuuck, Sam.” Hoarse. Not even sure which—

Smith palms Sam’s cheeks, pulls and spreads. Rubs up his back. Hovering. “Ready?”

Sam twists. Jean seams scrape his thighs. Dean, jaws taut and wary. Other-Dean, half starved, half goading.

Sweating.

Sam’s eyes fall closed. “I’m ready.” Knees up under him. Twin moans.

Dry fingers pet him. Sam breathes. Knuckles crack and Dean’s chair squeaks.

Chill wet. Slippery fingers scrabble, smear around. Sam grunts. Spread wide, on display. Circles at his hole. Tickles at his balls. Hand at his hip. Smith presses, Sam arches.

“Oh.” Smith almost sounds surprised.

“Son of a bitch.”

First stretch rips goosebumps up his neck. Smith wiggles in him, pushes deep. Glances off Sam’s prostate, makes him shake. “Ohh, shit. Is that—”

Livewire, everywhere and nowhere. Sam’s jaws clench, fists ball up. Fluttering. Chasing, reaching—

“Sam?” Round, green eyes. “We kinda lost you there for a second, you okay?”

Sam grins. Dopey. “Don’t stop.”

“Sammy—”

“I mean it.” Wobbles, but he shoves his ass back in the air. “I’m good.”

Smith lines up, rubs Sam’s rim. “You want—”

Same time Sam starts, “I can—”

Double thick. Burns but Sam makes himself relax. Smith pauses. “You should feel how fuckin tight he is—”

“Aw, shit.” Rumbling. Wheels on tiles and Dean’s chair crashes.

“And you…” Smith whispers. “You should see how he looks at you.”

Sam rocks.

No.

Dean’s bed rocks.

Sam reels. Smooth hand on one thigh, rough on the other. Two warm breath plumes. Sam’s hips jerk.

“You gonna fuck yourself like that?” Dean. “Ride that hand?” Must be.

Sam howls, balls fists, tears up the covers.

“Sammy…”

Smith strokes in him. Pours more lube. Heavy, callused palm, small of his back. Wide fingers sear him, spear him open. Mumbled swears and Sam’s torn moans. Gut clenches.

“Please. I need—”

Arms haul him up. Empty, wet, and loose. Dean, naked, hard beside him, face in his shoulder. Hand at his waist.

Smith bites his ear. “Kiss me.” He turns Sam. Wraps him up. Tender lips and sharp teeth. Trailing, teasing fingers. “Now kiss him.”

Sam twists. Dean’s eyes flash, deer-in-the-headlights. Bruise-tight squeeze at Sam’s hips.

“Dean?” Sam slides a palm under his jaw. Dean’s chin tips. Sam ducks. Mouths graze and Dean’s lips part. Soft taste. Sam waits.

“Sammy, you—”

“I’m in, Dean.” Sam’s thumb skims a cheekbone. “All the way.”

Dean sways. Flutter of lashes. Sam follows his gaze. Red, straining cocks between them.

Mouths collide. Dean plunges his tongue in, grips Sam’s hair, nape of his neck. Sam licks back, roof of Dean’s mouth. Traces his teeth. Wet, heavy smacks. Onion lingers. Smell of late nights on the road, slip-sticky skin.

Smith curls an arm around Sam’s shoulder. Square black packet in two fingers. “Pretty sure we all know the answer here, but. Who’s it gonna be, Sam?”

Dean stares at the condom. Licks and bites his lips. Sam grabs ass, grinds on him. Sweat and stray lube, precome slick. Dean quakes. “Okay.” Eyes close, knuckles skate Sam’s sides. “Okay.” Deep breath, and Dean flops on his back. “Let’s do this.” Hooks an eyebrow, flashes tongue. Grabs for the rubber.

Smith retreats. “I say we let him do it.” Nudges Sam. Foil glints as he hands it over.

Dean tracks, eyes half-mast.

Sam rips it open with trembling fingers. Fumbles; angle’s all wrong. Dean’s dick jumps and Sam’s leaks.

Dean taps his wrist.

Sam looks up.

Dean winks.

Sam swings across him.

“Hang on,” Smith breathes. “Lemme slick him up.” He tips Sam forward.

“Aww, fuck,” Dean moans.

“You’re,” Sam blinks, “cool with this?”

“It is literally masturbating.”

Drizzle at Sam’s hole. Hiss turns to a moan as Smith makes one last push in. Sam looks back, between his legs. Smith lubes Dean’s dick. Squeezes and strokes.

Dean bucks.

“You ready, Sam?” Smith guides him back. Lines up Dean’s cock.

Pressure. Sam bears down. Dean’s hands, Sam’s thighs.

“Take your time,” Smith whispers.

“Sammy we got you.”

Sam shudders; Dean slips free.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Smith holds him. Chin hooked at his shoulder, arm around. Thumb pets a nipple.

“Fuck, _me_.” Dean curls up, steals a kiss.

Sam sinks. Head falls back.

Smith, licking, nibbling. “That’s it, baby—”

Sam’s knees give.

“—take him nice and slow.”

Four hands.

“Easy.”

Dean burns in him, thick and insistent.

“Got you.”

“Sammy.”

Ragdolls.

Smith cocoons him. Strokes him, slick and blister-fast. Dean fills him, over and over. Sam plants on his chest, rides for the fire inside. Hair sticks to his face. Sam trembles; insides squeeze and Dean jerks. Splits him. Overload. Pulse in his ears.

“Come, Sam.”

He roars.

Come pools on Dean’s belly. Arm across his eyes Dean rocks, stutters and spirals. Smith pants, sticky heat behind and Sam convulses, Dean cusses.

Sam falls.

Jagged breaths.

Sam pets, kisses Dean’s face. Dean goes soft, slips out. Groans when, Sam figures, Smith strips the condom. Warm, dry cloth rides Sam’s spine.

“That better not be my shirt,” Dean bitches.

Sam eyerolls, but Smith says, “I found a towel in the hamper.”

“Perfect.” Dean folds his hands behind his neck. Lets Smith clean them up.

Sam roots his brother over. Smith settles behind him. Noisy yawn from either side.

“Hey-uh,” Smith says. “Chicken?”

“I set an alarm.” Dean worms his arm behind Sam’s neck. Turns toward him. Noses brush. Sam hooks a knee over Dean and pulls Smith close. Three big men overflow the bed.

*

Dean’s phone rings, buzzes across his desk.

Sam stretches, has enough room to stretch.

Dean rolls out. “You think he’s gone?” Shuts off his ringer. “Like. Gone-gone?”

“We’ll see, I guess.” Sam stares at his strong arms, broad back, bowlegs.

Dean catches him. Leers.

“Listen,” Sam pulls the covers around him. “I could, use the mirror; you know, do the ritual too?”

“Tryin to tag team me, Sammy? You dog.” Dean shrugs his robe on.

Eyeroll. “I just mean, I’m sure there’s stuff about me, I need to face.”

“Pick a city, throw a dart, man. Everybody’s messed up.”

“Not like us.”

“Well thank fuck for that.”

Fair point.

Dean goes on, “We made it, Sam.” Sits on the bed edge. “We’re alive. Together.” Palms up. “And now, we’ve got this place…”

Sam bristles.

“Hey. I ain’t tryin to rush you, to… y’know, settle in or whatever, I just—”

“I know.” Sam thumbs Dean’s wrist. “And I see how much it means to you, making this home, but…” He looks up. Waits for Dean to meet his eyes. “I don’t need it.” Half-smile. “You’re my home, Dean.”

He springs up, spins dramatically. “Oh my _God_ , I lay you _once_ and—”

“Fuck off.”

Dean heads for the washstand, squints at his reflection. “I say, let’s eat, get to work on these Trials, huh? Sooner we can take all demons off the board…”

Sooner Sam might think about… “Tomorrow.” He throws the covers off, crowds Dean against the sink. “You gotta see the gym downstairs; it’s—”

“Old-school?” Dean shivers.

“Very.” Arms around him, nose in his hair. To the mirror, “Spar with me.”

*

Dean’s neck pops and he cracks one eye. Clock on his nightstand flips to six and blares.

_“Waaaake up, Sandusky!”_

He punches snooze.

Next to him, Sam stirs. “Mornin.”

King-size bed, good sheets, silk PJ’s, “Dude.” Dean rolls over, dives for a kiss. “You gotta cool it with those audiobooks in bed.”

“What.” Sam’s forehead creases. “ _Supernatural_?”

“Yeah.” Dean shakes it off. “Shit’s giving me crazy dreams.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Please check out the art post and leave love here!](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/599474.html)


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